Tuesday, July 31, 2012

One.
One is a recipe for disaster.
A beginning with no end.
(Perhaps a middle.)
Never an end.
One is languid - not for the impatient.
(And I am impatient.)
One is a dangerous drug,
which I crave, but fear.

Friday, July 13, 2012

I did not catch this chicken - did not kill it, clean it, nor pluck the feathers from its goospimpled flesh. I did not remove its head and feet. I did not see its blood in the dirt.

I did roast its body, covered in chopped herbs and garlic, slowly in my oven. I ripped its carcass apart, separating out bone, sinew and cartilage - pulling back greasy skin to expose tender white muscle. I collect the flesh to be consumed and dump the bones into a pot to be boiled for stock.

My hands are covered in the animal's fat and flecks of flesh. I feel like a barbarian. I have destroyed this small body, cracked ribs, pulled the bones from their sockets, ripped muscles out to be eaten. I scrub my hands with dish soap, removing the grease and cleaning the bits of meat from beneath my fingernails. I have conquered this avian corpse.